Free White Lines by Jennifer Banash Page A

even be having this conversation.”
    “Wouldn’t we?”
    I’m silent, crossing my arms over my chest. Somewhere deep inside me I know she’s right, and it needles at my skin like a million tiny jolts of electricity. I know things have to change, that I can’t keep stumbling through the darkened landscape of my life, but I don’t know where to start. It’s like I’m running a race, weights strapped to my ankles, the clock ticking down minute after minute. Merciless.
    “Cat, I’m only saying this because I love you, but you’re fucking up. Big time. And what’s worse is that I think you know it. So be as pissed at me as you want.” She turns and looks at me, and the pain in her eyes almost breaks me apart. “But I’d rather have you be angry with me than continue down the path you’re on, because sooner or later you’re going to end up in the goddamn hospital. Or the morgue.”
    There’s a moment of silence in which I can hear the sound of my own ragged breathing mixing with the noise of the traffic, the cacophony of buses and pedestrians, the sound of Sara’s heart beating solidly next to mine.
    “For God’s sake, Sara, stop being so dramatic,” I snap, trying to brush off her words, but they stick in my brain, anchoring there with surprising force. “I’m not going to die,” I say more quietly now, looking down at the leaves that blow past my boots, wondering how I can be so sure.
    “Maybe not,” Sara says quietly. “But I don’t want to take that chance. I don’t know why you’re so willing to.”
    Sara’s voice breaks and she looks away again, her eyes distant as she stands up, walks to the curb and tosses her half-eaten salad into the trash. A woman walking an arthritic beagle passes slowly by, the dog dragging its hindquarters as it meanders slowly down the street. Tears swim in my eyes, blurring my vision, and I bring my fists up to my face, rubbing my eyes as if I want to blot them out entirely. When Sara gets like this, the only thing to do is change the subject.
    “So . . . ,” I say when she sits back down, taking a deep breath, unsure if I should tell her about Julian but suddenly unable to stop myself. “I met this guy yesterday. Julian. He’s new.” The words come out in a rush, and I’m aware of my face flushing stupidly. It’s been so long since I’ve had a crush on anyone that I feel like everything I’m saying sounds ridiculous. Sara’s mouth falls open and she waits for me to finish. “We had some pizza together yesterday at lunch, and today he just kind of . . . ignored me.”
    “Wait . . . ,” Sara says slowly, her brow scrunching into a mass of wrinkles above her shock of white hair. “He used to go to Dalton, right? Julian Lee? Worships the Ramones? Has a lot of dirty black hair? Looks Japanese or something?”
    “Yeah,” I say, nodding, “that’s him.”
    “Oh, Cat,” Sara says quietly. “You got off easy.”
    “What do you mean?” I take one last gulp of my coffee, wincing as the now cold liquid hits the back of my throat. I hate cold coffee. I’m feeling shaky and unhinged from all the caffeine, like I might break apart at any moment. My wrist aches, and I rub it absentmindedly with one hand as I wait for Sara’s response. It broke in two places last year when my mother decided that a B on a science test was unacceptable and slammed my hand in the door of our Town Car the night before I was supposed to see Depeche Mode at Madison Square Garden. I inwardly cringe, remembering the pain, the impact of metal on bone, the crunching sound as my wrist shattered into pieces, the high-pitched scream that left my lips, and my own bewilderment.
Who’s that?
I thought as my voice echoed through the air, shrill and unfamiliar, one part of myself watching, disconnected and weirdly observant.
    “You don’t know about him?” Sara crosses one leg over the other, angling her body toward me, her polka-dotted red-and-white tights a beacon in the weak